


we found our way through our youthful fears (and fought our way through the pain and tears)

by Lysippe



Series: The Worst Witch 2018 Winter Fluff-A-Thon [1]
Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, I swear, a little melancholy, but also sweet?, but you get your happy ending, first snow, idk this is kind of soft, it's definitely not pure fluff, lots of Hecate being angsty and introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 08:35:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysippe/pseuds/Lysippe
Summary: Hecate remembers the first time she realized quite how much Pippa loves the snow like it was yesterday. It wasn’t, of course. She is detached from the memory of that night by thirty years and immeasurable heartbreak and more grief than she would ever have believed herself capable of. But whens she props herself up in bed (Pippa’s bed, in Pippa’s bedroom, at Pippa’s school), pulled out of a state of not-quite-sleep, everything comes back to her like no time has passed at all. Like she is once again sixteen years old, in her room at Miss Amulet’s, pressing balled-up fists against her eyes in a vain attempt at staving off the sleep she feels creeping up on her.





	we found our way through our youthful fears (and fought our way through the pain and tears)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of fics in which I start with a vague idea for the prompt and then by the end of the first page, I've skewed into something completely different. It was also the first thing I ever wrote for this fandom so like, I was kind of nervous going back to edit it today since I wrote it a month ago?

Hecate remembers the first time she realized quite how much Pippa loves the snow like it was yesterday. It wasn’t, of course. She is detached from the memory of that night by thirty years and immeasurable heartbreak and more grief than she would ever have believed herself capable of. But whens she props herself up in bed ( _ Pippa’s _ bed, in  _ Pippa’s _ bedroom, at  _ Pippa’s  _ school), pulled out of a state of not-quite-sleep, everything comes back to her like no time has passed at all. Like she is once again sixteen years old, in her room at Miss Amulet’s, pressing balled-up fists against her eyes in a vain attempt at staving off the sleep she feels creeping up on her.

And when she hears the stage-whispered “ _ Hiccup, it’s  _ snowing _!” _ it feels at once comfortable and achingly familiar. As though Pippa, too, is suspended in time, so perfectly recreating one of Hecate’s fondest memories of their shared youth. Of Pippa, eyes alight in the dim candle-lit room, all earlier exhaustion from hours of exam preparation and paper writing quickly forgotten. Of the naked joy on her face, the breathy “ _ oh! _ ” that almost escaped Hecate’s notice, but for the fact that she paid entirely too much attention to Pippa, always.

Hecate’s eyes are still blurred with the last vestiges of sleep, her mind ever-so-slightly foggier than usual. But she realizes dimly that the sheets beside her, while still warm, are entirely too empty. And she sees Pippa, somehow fuzzier and less real than she was in Hecate’s memory, standing in the window with her back turned, wrapped loosely in a gray knit shawl that Hecate vaguely recognizes as her own. Her nose is pressed straight to the pane of the tower window, breath fogging the glass, and Hecate is quite positive that she can hear Pippa’s teeth chattering against the draft.

She thinks, briefly, that Pippa must be going mad.

But then, Pippa has always been a bit mad about snow. And about other things, if Hecate is being perfectly honest.

She isn’t certain whether Pippa knows she is awake - she makes no motion to acknowledge her if she does - or if she is as caught up in her own memories as Hecate is. Of different snow, and a different bedroom, and a different time when everything was different between them. When a lifetime of hurt and confusion and anger didn’t hang over their heads, threatening to bring the fragile peace they have forged crashing down around them at the smallest tremor. When Pippa’s eyes glinted with mischief and excitement and an innocent sort of joy that Hecate had fought so hard, hidden so much, in order to preserve. When it was enough to just  _ be  _ together. When they were enough for each other, and that was all that mattered. 

And she wonders, perhaps in vain, if that could still be true. It seems that way, sometimes. The way they have so easily slipped into a comfortable holding pattern - chess and tea on Thursdays, dinner every other Saturday - or the way conversation flows so effortlessly that it feels to Hecate like no time has passed between them at all. That the thirty years in which they were completely detached from each other’s lives are nothing more than a figment of her imagination, a bad dream lurking in the darkest, saddest corners of her mind.

In the absence of her shawl, Hecate reaches for the soft pink afghan Pippa keeps at the foot of her bed, wrapping it around her shoulders. She isn’t sure, exactly, what the correct course of action is here. Whether her company would be welcomed, or an intrusion on a rare moment of solitude. But the compulsion has already gripped her, and Hecate moves slowly, silently, so as not to disturb Pippa. She stands, a not quite respectable distance behind Pippa, hands clasped at her chest, holding the afghan around her as tight as she can, and listens to the whistle of the wind against the stones, the deep, soft rhythm of Pippa’s breathing.

“Isn’t it lovely?”

The question takes Hecate by surprise, and she  assumes  it must be rhetorical, meant for the silence of the room and not her own ears, because Pippa still has made no motion to turn around, to glance her way or acknowledge her in any way. But  it is still a question, and questions are something that Hecate prides herself on knowing the answers to. Only though the question seems deceptively simple, deceptively casual, she knows that it’s anything but. That this, like so many other questions with Pippa, is something she doesn’t quite  know the correct answer to. Not her honest answer (she hates all things having to do with winter; the air too cold, the snow too wet, the burning ache in her lungs with every breath too constant). Nor the blithe lie that Pippa would see right through, because she knows her far too well not to (Hecate has always hated the winter far more, according to Pippa, than is at all reasonable). She is, as she so often is with Pippa, at a loss.

But a response of any variety proves unnecessary.

“You know, ” Pippa continues, absently, “the weather was part of why I chose this place to set up my school. I always wanted to have snow at Christmas time. It was one of my favorite things about Miss Amulet’s.” She glances at Hecate for the first time, smile soft and gentle, but teasing, an expression Hecate remembers well, one that never failed to make her soften just a little, even all those years ago. “And I remember how much you used to  _ love  _ the snow.”

Hecate snorts. “You would set up your school in a location plagued by obscene cold just to spite me.” Pentangle’s is quite a bit further north than Cackle’s, and though Pippa had, admittedly, paid more attention to keeping the castle warm than Ada, Hecate can still the chill radiating through the walls, seeping into her bones, incessant and pervasive and deeply, deeply unwelcome.

Pippa glances back at Hecate with a soft smile, eyes bright, but melancholy. “I would have,” she agrees. But her smile dims, so slightly that Hecate barely notices. But she does notice. “Especially back then. But as delightful as that particular act of spite would have been, I’m afraid it simply isn’t true.”

Hecate knows this, knows that it had been a joke, that her own response had been, as well. But she also knows the old hurts that this topic of conversation has brought up, the ones buried far too shallow beneath the surface, the wounds too raw even after all these years, scars that never quite healed over with the passage of time. And she wants to, needs to, feels compelled beyond all reason to say  _ something _ . To apologize, or make excuses for her actions. For a decision she knows was hers and hers alone. For the hurt she caused, and the closure she denied them both.

Instead, she just says, “I know,” in a voice that is hoarse and strained, even to her own ears, and Hecate hopes against all hope that Pippa hasn’t noticed.

But of course, she has.  _ Of course _ .

And it would be completely fine, Hecate reasons, if Pippa noticed, but for the fact that she will absolutely, without question, want to talk about it. It only takes a quick glance to know that she was correct. She has never been any good at hiding anything from Pippa. Especially not her emotions, as infuriating as it is.

“Hiccup.” It’s quiet, barely more than a whisper, and Hecate may well have missed the word altogether had it not she not been looking directly at Pippa when she said it. “ _ Hiccup _ .” Once again, more forceful this time.

Hecate nods her head, the smallest movement she can make, but the most she can bring herself to do in acknowledgment. This is one of the most contentious parts of their relationship, still. The part they gloss over, and move briskly past when it comes up in conversation. The part that they never, ever talk about, in any way, if at all possible. Because there are too many unknowns. Too many what-ifs. What if Pippa never truly managed to forgive her? What if Hecate wasn’t as sorry as Pippa thought she should be? What if it turned out to have been the right decision all along, and what they’re doing now is just deluding themselves into thinking that they can have back something that they never had in the first place?

But it isn’t.

Hecate knows it isn’t, knows that the fact that it isn’t is what made her leave in the first place, and the fact that it broke Pippa’s heart so thoroughly, so enduringly, is proof of that. But there is always the quiet voice in the back of her mind, saying  _ no _ . Saying  _ this isn’t enough _ ,  _ you aren’t enough, you can never  _ be _ enough. _

“Hiccup _ , talk _ to me.” Pippa’s voice is steady, but Hecate detects the note of pleading. The ever-so-slightly frightened  _ don’t leave again _ that hangs unspoken in the air, even as Hecate stands, solid and real, at her side. And Hecate knows, in that moment, that she couldn’t, not ever again.

“I’m just,” Hecate starts, then stops. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and tries to force the quaver out of her voice. Pippa places a hand on her arm, and lets it rest there, present but not overbearing, the touch calming and not at all as oppressive as Hecate would find it from anyone else. Hecate breathes again, letting the calm radiate out through her body from the point of contact, and says, “I’m sorry. I’m… I’m just so sorry.” It’s the first time she’s really said it, really acknowledged, even without words, the damage she has done. The pain she caused.

“Oh, Hecate,” Pippa breathes. She opens her arms, letting the shawl fall to the ground in the process, and before Hecate has a chance to register it, Pippa’s arms are around her, squeezing tightly. Pippa’s face is buried in Hecate’s neck, lips pressed against her skin, and Hecate feels more than hears the mumbled “ _ it’s okay _ ” before Pippa pulls back, straightening her hair and brushing what Hecate is positive she would deny are tears from her eyes.

“It’s okay,” Pippa repeats, her voice calmer now, more steady. Then, a split second before Hecate is about to open her mouth to argue, “It  _ is _ . It wasn’t before, not for a long time. But time marches on, and I would just as soon march with it than get stuck in the past due to petty grudges.”

“It’s hardly petty,” is the only thing Hecate can think of to say.

“No,” Pippa agrees. “Perhaps not. But it is in the past, nonetheless. And you and I, right here, right now, are not. And before you give me some righteous speech about how the past informs all our future decisions, and we mustn’t pretend that it didn’t happen, I’m not. I’m making the conscious, informed decision to let it go. So we can move forward, together.”

Hecate knows that this is the time for sincerity, for something genuine and heartfelt and not at all like anything she would normally say. But that isn’t her, has never been her, and what comes out instead is a quiet snort of amusement, a fond smile, and, “You always were the romantic one.”

And Pippa laughs at that, low and throaty and as genuine as Hecate has ever heard. “I was, too, wasn’t I? Though perhaps,” she says, voice dropping down to a conspiratorial whisper, “you make me that way. Perhaps it’s because I love you.”

Hecate feigns thoughtfulness, suspends for just a moment the disbelief she feels that she could possibly inspire grand romantic thoughts in anyone, and says, at last, with a fond smile, “Perhaps, indeed.”


End file.
